Mom offers words of, er, wisdom

In 10 years as a newspaper columnist, I've interviewed plenty of fascinating people. However, the golden interviewee, that one impossibly unique character, remained elusive. I called her and made a pitch.

Me: Let's do an interview, Mom.

Mom: No! People will think I'm weird. You'll make me look crazy.

Me: Only the good kind of crazy.

Mom: What do you want to ask me?

I hold the phone against my ear and consider. I could ask her how she knows everything, or at least has a firm opinion on everything from cabinet knobs to eyebrow pencils. Or why she needs to go to Costco so often. Or how her entire wardrobe became composed of only turquoise, beige and peach clothing; or if she's aware that, through gifts, she is slowly doing the same to mine?

Me: (Clear throat) I'm sitting here with a stack of wig catalogs in front of me. Since no one in our family has hair loss due to cancer or thinning, why is it that you send me wig catalogs?

Mom: Some of them would look really cute on you. I like them for the hairstyle ideas. I ordered one once but sent it back.

Me: Why?

Mom: It looked like a wig.

I leaf through a catalog, past frosted, spiky 'dos and fringy, layered mops. They bear names like “Lady Estelle,” “Footloose” and “Temptation.” There are wiglets and butterfly claws, extensions and braids. The young models beam underneath stiff hair that clearly doesn't originate from their follicles.

Mom: I wore a short one years ago; it looked like Princess Grace. I didn't have to mess with my hair. And I wore a chignon on my honeymoon in Vegas. I think I gave that to you?

She did indeed. When I found it recently, at the back of a linen closet, I unwound it and taped it to my tush while I cooked dinner. Grammie gave me a tail, I explained to the kids.

Me: Why not just go for it and return to your wig-wearing, glory days of the '60s?

Mom: Well, the problem is you have to wash a wig and take care of it. You have to buy a head, maybe take it to the hairdresser. I've seen it. Lots of people wear wigs. People in the movies. People your age probably wear them.

Me: So you think I should buy a wig?

Mom: Well, it would be cool to have short hair and then just show up somewhere with a long bob.

Me: Like to the soccer field? People would know, Mom.

Mom: You wouldn't care if you were having fun.

I close the catalog. It's time to move to the next subject: disasters. My mom, the only person I know who has actually fallen into quicksand, is the reason I believe rabid raccoons are lurking in local parks and that the Grand Canyon is actually the world's grandest death trap.

Me: Why are you still clipping and mailing newspaper articles about alligators, floods, muggings and freak accidents to me?

Mom: Oh my gosh, did you hear about that woman who fell off the roller coaster in Texas? I don't know why anyone would go on one of those rides.